Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.
You’re going to need a new mantra. It’s funny how the way that we signify a year passing is by lighting and then blowing out candles. “It’s funny how,” was a phrase you said in high school. It was a popular thing to say back then, in high school, where you always told yourself the truth.
You never remember the first lie. They start like a mist in the fog of words and it takes you the whole walk home before you realize that you’re soaking wet. It doesn’t seem like a big deal once, but doing that night after night can get you pretty sick. You need to protect your life from your lies. You can’t just kill the lies you tell yourself. You need to murder them.
You will have to be exacting because they won’t want to go. You will have to plot and stalk them down. You will have to sit in an expensive chair, in the dark, in their apartment, and wait for the lies to return from dinner, unsuspecting. They will turn on the lights and you will be revealed.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” your lies will say as they fumble with their coat. Your lies will drop their keys on the delicate end table and their empty hand will quiver. They will feel a chill quicken through them and their heart hammering their chest, the way all villains do in the final reel. They call it “the climax” for a reason. You will begin to make a speech to them and they will glance nervously at the door.
“I think we both have been expecting this. I think this has been a long time coming…” you will tell your lies as you rise from the chair. Your lies will offer you a drink. You will decline.
You will take even paces toward your lies. They will be the footsteps of someone who is certain that being honest with herself, while it seems dangerous at first, is actually a lot safer for everyone. Well, everyone except the lies.
You will wrap your fingers around the neck of the lies you tell yourself and watch the horror burn in their deceitful eyes. You will blow the life out of your lies like a candle. They will struggle at first, but they won’t ask you why. Lies know the truth. Lies know they’re lies.
Now that they’re gone, you will need to clean up the mess. Wipe up their duplicity before it stains the beautiful wood floors. The lies you tell yourself have a lovely home and a realtor will have no problem finding a new owner. You’ll get away scot-free—it’s not even illegal to murder lies. You’ve just committed the crime of the sensory.
You can’t just kill the lies you tell yourself. You need to murder them. It doesn’t mean you can’t believe in anything. It just means you can’t believe in everything. Everything is not fine, and that’s okay. I’d rather be a murderer than a liar.